


boy

by freakedelic



Series: Slade Wilson Is Awful [3]
Category: DCU (Comics), Teen Titans (Animated Series)
Genre: Aged-Down Character(s), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Collars, Gotham Trash Party, Hotels, Leashes, Loss of Identity, M/M, Mints but like those really good ones that dissolve in ur mouth, Showers, Starched White Shirts, handjobs, implied brainwashing, only like two years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-25 07:24:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15635997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakedelic/pseuds/freakedelic
Summary: Now, he turns his eyes pointedly away. His fingers drift, almost without his knowledge, to the crisp top of his shirt. It’s pulled up as much as it can be while still staying in place, hiding the black collar secured around his neck.SLADE, it says. He rubs fingers over the engraving, as familiar under his pads as his own skin.





	boy

**Author's Note:**

> THIS FIC IS BROUGHT TO YOU BY!  
> \- my beta reader sevent, aka regi  
> \- my unending thirst for slade wilson  
> \- my childhood trauma  
> \- this pic of robin which started it all bc HOOO BOYYYYY -> http://stareyedbat.tumblr.com/post/155620142772/brthers-p33p-saucyhime-gross-groaning

        The boy stands in the entryway to the hotel chain, a place sparsely decorated with an almost dirty, hard-packed carpet. He doesn’t move, which the lady at the desk notes as strange, only surreptitiously eyeing the large jar of mints with hands curled at his side. He wears a starched white shirt held at his wrists and khaki pants, overly solemn for a boy who can’t be more than fourteen or fifteen. The man with him is, paradoxically, dressed more casually—black pants and a twin shirt rolled up to his elbows with the top few buttons undone. He’s much taller, with a certain presence of personality about him that’s easy to miss if you focus only on the fact that he has one eye.

They stand together, not speaking, simply waiting for the line to move forward. The boy shifts almost imperceptibly, impatient but too used to frustration to show it. Slade’s eye flickers around the room with his usual thorough perception as the boy who was Robin stares up at him. Slade doesn’t look down, instead lazily shifting his weight. The boy turns his gaze towards the jar of mints sitting on the counter. They’re the best kind, he remembers, the ones that dissolve in your mouth even if you don’t grind them to a paste. There was a time when he would stuff five or six in his pocket with abandon, a time that’s fuzzy and outlined in pale, lost colors.

Now, he turns his eyes pointedly away. His fingers drift, almost without his knowledge, to the crisp top of his shirt. It’s pulled up as much as it can be while still staying in place, hiding the black collar secured around his neck.

        SLADE, it says. He rubs fingers over the engraving, as familiar under his fingers as his own skin.

“How may I help you?”

The boy jerks his head up, taking an easy step forward to close the gap between him and the counter, his fingers coming down in front of him. The woman there smiles at him, friendliness flickering across her features, and the boy casts his eyes down to the washed-out red of the carpet. There is very little pattern there, just feet of fuzzy spheres with dirt stuffed between them.

Slade speaks for them. “I reserved a room for Lee Sowell.” He presses a silver card onto the counter, slides it across the marble. She takes it, flicks it easily through the register, verifies his name and his money.

“Room 342,” she tells him. “I’ll have the bellboy bring up your things. Have a nice night, sir.” Slade only hums in response. The boy feels the woman’s gaze on his neck and he looks up, staring unavoidably into another person’s eyes. He twitches his face to contemplate the marble instantly, but leaves an opening.

“Do you want a mint?” she asks kindly. “They’re complimentary.”

The boy can do nothing but stare up at Slade in question, fingers rubbing together. Slade tilts his head, and the boy would wonder if he’d heard but it’s _Slade_ , so that would be silly. Slade slips his fingers in the jar and pockets two, and then he’s moving towards the elevator. Slade’s fingers flick at the boy, almost imperceptibly, and he follows without conscious thought. The boy follows in Slade’s footsteps towards the elevator, the older man tapping on the UP button as they wait in the lobby.

It is the evening already, the double glass doors already only lit by the illumination inside the hotel and the streetlights outside. The boy knows that they drove for seven hours today, from Duluth, because of all the places they’ve been together the States are always the widest, always take the longest to traverse. Tomorrow they will either get back on the road or they will take out a target with the clinical precision of international assassins—or maybe they will get on a plane and fly halfway across the world. It’s impossible to know.

The elevator dings, surprisingly loud in the deserted lobby, the door opening slowly to reveal the square room empty of people, elevator music sounding low in the air. Slade steps in, the boy follows, and the door whirrs shut leaving them in a too-bright almost claustrophobic atmosphere. Slade hits the button for the third floor. There is no sound but the music.

Slade shifts, pulling the boy towards him with a hand on his shoulder. Rough, sure fingers slip to adjust the collar of his shirt, pulling it up over the buckled collar it hides. The boy doesn’t move, instead feeling the hands brush against the more sensitive parts of his neck.

“Don’t mess with your collar,” Slade instructs.

The boy stares at the neon letters as they slowly count up, then turns his eyes down towards the floor. “Yes, Master.”

Slade’s fingers leave his neck just as the door opens. Their imprints seem to linger on the boy’s skin even as Slade moves past him down the hall. Nobody seems to be awake at this hour—barring, of course, the woman who had joined them in checking in at the front desk—and they pad silently down on the carpet. The elevator closes behind their steps, most probably going back for the bellboy and their baggage.

The walk is only thirty seconds, the boy trying to walk faster to compensate for Slade’s large strides. The number 342 is neatly mounted on the door, Slade producing the electronic key from his shirt pocket and slipping it into the handle’s lock until the rudimentary device turns green. The duo step into a completely dark hotel room, the only light the dim illumination of the hallway until Slade easily flicks the light switch. The door swings shut behind them, the sparse and cool hotel room a balm after the long day of traveling. They move into the next room, which features a couch, a queen-sized bed, and a small writing desk with tourist brochures and the programming for the cable TV. The boy assumes that the couch pulls out into another bed, but he won’t find out for sure. It won’t be used. Their bathroom, the door cracked open from where the boy is standing, has a clean shower and a bath and the small tubes of shampoo that one comes to expect from hotels.

A knock comes.

“Answer it,” Slade commands. The boy turns, pulls easily on the metal handle of the door. A tired looking bellboy stands behind it, the pair’s sparse luggage behind him. He doesn’t say anything as he reaches behind to pass the baggage into the room, the boy taking ahold of it as Slade appears behind him with muffled movement, pulling his own suitcase easily across the floor.

They travel lightly—or as lightly as one can when equipped with the best equipment for murder money can buy. The suitcases are heavy and oddly shaped, though Slade tips the bellboy generously for his trouble and, the boy assumes, his at least partial silence. The door closes on the bellboy with what seems to the boy to be an almost grim finality, Slade taking a step forward to lock the door. It clicks coldly.

The boy stares at it. The extra DO NOT DISTURB sign hangs unused on their side of the door. Slade, however, reaches into one of his suitcases, pulling at the zipper with practiced ease and crouching to dig with his hands in the mess of fabric. He finds what he’s looking for easily enough.

“Come here.”

The boy responds to Slade’s beckons with no less hesitancy than any other order, moving easily to stand by his Master’s side. Slade slides his fingers down the singular bit of fabric, pulling with a now-free hand at the top of the boy’s shirt. It recedes easily, even without the top button undone, to reveal the black band around the boy’s neck. Slade hooks his find into the collar with an easy _clink_ , winding the other end around his hand and wrist—a leash. The boy stands stock still as Slade’s fingers move deftly, pulling him in and up with a pressure he has no option but to acquiesce to.

Slade leans down and captures the boy’s mouth with his own. The boy is engulfed by Slade’s scent, a mix of sweat and aftershave curling around him like a stifling cloud. The man’s beard scratches against his chin, lips and tongue moving insistently as the pressure on the back of the boy’s neck keeps him moving inward until Slade is all around him. He kisses back, half-heartedly, swollen lips and roving tongue picking up hints of citrus.

The man separates them with another tug on the leash, eyes glinting with something that promises more to come. The boy feels something in his gut, fizzing hot and cold.

They begin their nightly methodical sweep of the room. It’s only smart, for people so dangerous in such circumstances; even if they turn up nothing but lint it’s a worthwhile exercise in observation. Slade checks the locks on the windows, leash still draped around his wrist, while the boy combs under the bed, an ability of his small but growing size. Their combined efforts come to nothing—it’s not unusual; in fact, it’s the expected result of making sure there are no unwanted listeners. The two move into an easy routine, one that stems from repetitions over weeks and months of traversing the world on their own, an expected dynamic common from so long together.

The suitcases don’t bear unpacking, only putting the toiletries on the stark white kitchen sink and taking note of the things that need to be washed come morning, or the next time they get the opportunity. There is no mission tonight, Slade lazily undoing the top buttons on his shirt as they prepare to truly settle down for the evening. Slade is as relaxed as he gets as he near-sprawls himself on the bedspread, the newest edition of iPad in hand and a pensive look on his face. Almost absently, he pulls the boy over to him, winding the leash further through his fingers as the boy obediently sits next to him, chin coming to just above the larger man’s shoulder. The boy folds his legs under himself, Slade tugging further so that’s he’s forced to lean on the older man, burying his face in the folds of his perfectly starched shirt. He smells of almost-sweat and expensive aftershave; the boy watches through lidded eyes as he taps easily through correspondences and data. Slade knows better than to mistake the relaxed disposition as laziness; the boy memorizes everything that comes across his field of vision as easily as he takes to sparring and tolerates his collar.

Slade hums half-remembered pinches of music to himself as he finishes his work, the boy curled up next to him and the world outside growing darker by the minute. It’s an almost peaceful stretch of time in the violent monotony of their everyday lives, the silence only broken by Slade’s fingers against the screen and the gentle whirring of the hotel’s air conditioner. The boy almost begins to drift off, his concentration breaking at last, and then Slade is setting the iPad off to the side, setting it to charge as his business is concluded. He turns to the boy, pulling him so he can look into his eyes, his own blue one filled with a glinting, roiling hunger. A hand comes upwards to trace the boy’s cheekbones, rough fingers curling around smooth, warm skin.

“You did well today,” he says, and the boy feels something flare within him, a sort of forgotten hope in approval and acceptance. He still doesn’t dare meet Slade’s eyes.

“Thank you, Master.”

“Hm.” It’s the last, noncommittal sound Slade makes before he’s kissing the boy again, insistent and with purpose, lips engulfing him as the boy drowns in his presence, not even bothering to try and swim as the leash tugs him inexorably inward. Slade’s hands move from his cheek to running through his hair, the other twisting along his hip, brushing over bruises the boy’s sustained in the week prior. The boy curls his fingers around the folds of Slade’s shirt, hands left with nowhere else to go, a jumble of limbs in the much larger man’s grasp.

Slade’s hands shift, fingers crawling up his back and tracing the bumps of the boy’s spinal column as if he intends to count them all, a hand coursing through his hair and landing, rough and warm, on the back of his neck. Slade hums from deep in his chest, the vibrations traveling through their interconnected limbs, then pulls away, saliva glinting off his bottom lip. He takes the opportunity to pull the boy around him, spreading the boy’s legs onto his lap, fingers digging in above his hips and under his arms, even as he is pulled along.

The boy is kissed again, fingers on his body more insistent this time, prying at his skin, neatly slipping the buttons of his shirt undone to expose pale skin, fingers roving lower. The boy clenches his fists into the man’s loose shirt until his knuckles almost turn white, because he knows what is next. Slade roughly pulls him further into his lap, his fingers pressing downwards on the back of the boy’s hips, sliding into his pants and gently squeezing his ass before pushing the garments downwards and almost off the boy. The boy curves his head lower, relaxing as he gives his body over to the man, Slade’s erection pressing into his thigh. He shifts, barely, almost uncomfortably; Slade reaches an arm up through the back of his loosened shirt to pull him closer, the boy’s face buried in his neck, the darkness and warmth against his face.

He’s pulled astray by Slade readjusting to pull his undergarments off fully, tugged haphazardly onto the bed and still hanging onto one ankle when Slade pulls him back, moving against him, lips devouring the boy from the inside out, burning him alive. A hand pulls against the leash, bringing him in even closer, rough fingers brushing his nipples and slick lips making their way down the side of his neck. A bite that draws blood has him arching in Slade’s lap, involuntary noise escaping him. He feels the smile against his skin as his shirt slips off one shoulder, Slade making his way down with the amount of perfect concentration he applies to everything else in his life.

The boy feels the cold absence of the tongue on the side of his neck and his eyes flicker open. Slade pushes him back to endeavor to free himself, fingers easily flicking the button of his slacks aside and pulling down the zipper. The boy twists uncomfortably as the leash pulls him down, and he wonders if he’ll be made to—no, Slade has other plans, the hand that doesn’t slip to wrap around his own cock moving off to the side, almost fumbling but not because fumbling is not something Slade does. His fingers come back wrapped around a bottle of lubricant, conveniently moved to the side of the bed when, the boy assumes, he wasn’t looking. The skin gleams as he applies it; the boy feels something sick and unwanted stir low in him. Slade’s fingers are slick and calloused, moving dexterously and carefully. Seconds later they are on the boy once again, prying at his back and hips and then slipping lower. The boy feels his fists contract in Slade’s shirt as fingers pry him open, one and then two, dragging themselves through him in rough strokes. The boy stares at the wall behind the hotel bed, wallpapered in pale yellow and blue, flowers climbing the walls without a care in the world.

Slade adds a third finger. It doesn’t hurt, they’re far beyond that point, but it’s cold and pulls him wide. Seconds later it’s slipping out, a second of strange emptiness before he’s pulled forward, by the leash and by the small of his back. He can feel Slade’s warm breath against his ear, feels his own sweat in his hair, Slade’s fingerprints marking every inch of him as he’s raised and then settles, a hiss bitten off halfway, on Slade’s cock. Its coldness invades him, the breath from Slade’s sigh of appreciation warming his back as he leans over, arching his spine, legs curling instinctively around Slade’s waist. Slade’s fingers are back on the boy’s hips, rocking him forward and backward, strange sensations deep in the boy’s core.

Slade’s fingers tug themselves around the leash, a symbol of utter possession unmatched by the sexual dominance Slade holds. His teeth are bared in pleasure, silver hair pushed back from his face, shirt creased by the fingers of the boy. The boy stubbornly bites his puffy lips against the sound hissing through his teeth, stares at the flowers on the wall, shirt disheveled and half-open. Slade rocks in a steady rhythm, near-silent grunts and exhalations only giving away his concentration on the pleasure at hand. The boy rocks with him, out of necessity, sweat-soaked inner thighs sliding on Slade’s hips, near inaudible gasps escaping him from moment to moment.

The boy slips forward, his own emerging erection rubbing against Slade’s gut. Slade laughs in his ear, low and rough, as he digs his fingers into the boy’s hips and easily pulls him up half an inch, setting him down with an easy roughness before pulling him up again. The boy is forced to move his head from its position against Slade’s neck, fingers still clenched around the cloth. Slade’s breathing becomes rougher, more intense, as he moves the boy up and down on himself.  The boy shuts his eyes so tight that he’s only left with imprints of Slade’s face on the backs of his lids, the sound of skin on skin overtaking the air conditioner’s whirring. He is _taken,_ over and over, faster and faster, as Slade’s grunts against his shoulder grow louder and more intense. Slade’s tongue once again traces the side of his neck, flicking back and forth against the boy’s skin because of their shared movement, teeth brushing against the dips of his shoulders. Slade takes him and overtakes him, uses him and owns him, towers as that much more powerful.

The pace increases. The boy hisses through his teeth. Slade’s mouth is pushed into his shoulder, building to a painful crescendo.

Slade bites down on the boy’s shoulder with the viciousness of passion. The boy’s eyes fly open, white hair and yellow wallpaper filling his sight. He feels slick warmth welling deep in him, Slade still throbbing there, even as he hums with a lazy contentment.

_It’s over._

His fingers move from their position at Slade’s shoulders, arms falling limply to his sides. Slade basks in his afterglow for several seconds pulling out, sending a slow stickiness dripping down the boy’s legs as a reminder. He’s still horribly hard, teeth gnawing on the inside of his mouth as Slade gently pushes the boy off him, untangling the sheets and discarded clothing from the participants’ limbs. He leaves them there, long legs sliding off the bed, pulling up his garments enough to free movement. The leash pulls the boy after him, thighs rubbing together wetly, over the padded carpet and towards the bathroom. His half-on-half-off shirt falls just over his hips as he steps onto the cold tile of the bathroom, staring at his own reddened face in the mirror.

Something coils in his gut, something that might have been identified were it _before_. Now, he simply stares dispassionately at his own near alien visage. Slade turns on the water in a swift movement, brushing aside the shower curtain. He takes off his clothes quickly and easily, not even looking at the boy as he gives a simple direction.

“Strip.”

The boy does so, unbuttoning his shirt and letting it fall to the ground, leaving him fully exposed. Slade pulls off his eyepatch and takes out his glass eye, setting them almost carefully on the counter. Then he runs a hand under the water, finds it to his liking, and then steps into it, pulling the boy behind him.

The water is too cold, falling with steady and unstoppable insistence. It hits his skin in an irregular rhythm, wetting his hair and pouring over his skin. It stings on the part of his shoulder Slade bit down on. He spreads his legs to let it wash away the last of Slade on his body, and oh, he’s still hard, eyes flicking back up to Slade’s chest, crisscrossed with scars as white as his hair. The sweat of the long day washes off the both of them, stink falling away into the bland scent of hotel brand soap.

“Turn.”

The boy obediently turns to face the temperature gauge, face distorted in an unrecognizable expression by its stainless steel. He doesn’t even notice himself responding to Slade’s commands anymore, left only with a second nature drilled into his soul over the course of—

_—how long?—_

Slade’s hands rest on his shoulders, fingers and nails twisting upside down in the faucet. They brush down, curling through the boy’s short hair, now limp strands under the water. He pulls at the collar, letting the water wash over the boy’s neck and under it. It hasn’t come off since Slade first put it on him; the boy’s not even sure if it can.

He doesn’t ask.

He knows that it never will.

Slade hums to himself as hands slip down the boy, almost absently, as if something else is on his mind. As if he isn’t paying perfect attention as he leans over the boy, engulfing him in his mass. Fingers slip lower; the boy stares stolidly at the wall across from his face, aware of how uncomfortably hard he is.

Slade’s hand closes around his cock. Slade’s fingers are rough and large, skilled at what they seek to do. A soft moan slips past his lips against his will as he leans back into Slade. Seconds later he’s spilling himself onto the floor of the shower with a gasp, shuddering with pleasure. A hand grips his shoulder, pulling him upright on the slick floor of the shower, regaining footing he didn’t know he’d lost.

“Good boy.” Slade’s voice is low in his ear, teeth nipping at his shoulder.

Slade lets go seconds later, leaving the boy to find his own purchase, moving towards the rack of soaps and shampoos. He tosses some to the boy with a simple command—“Wash”. They stand in silence except for the tapping of the water against skin and ceramic, even that cut off as Slade reaches around the boy so that they can apply the body soap without interrupting. It sloughs off them with sweat and dirt and sex, Slade rubbing shampoo through his hair with quick ease.

Soon the water is off for real, and the boy shivers in the cold air of the room before Slade throws a towel over his head as he grabs one for himself. Slade brushes his teeth with half-hearted vigor, spitting in the sink with the towel wrapped around his waist. The boy waits to follow suit, standing stock still with brush in hand as Slade refastens the lead to his collar. It fits snugly in the man’s palm, almost as well as the collar fits around the boy’s neck, as he pulls them out to the real air. He digs in the suitcase for several seconds before pulling on a clean pair of briefs. The lamp clicks on easily, and seconds later, the two of them are plunged into near darkness by the lazy flick of a light switch.

The boy is pulled over the bed, Slade sliding smoothly under the comforter and blankets. He takes up a little more than half the bed, pale hair dripping down the pillows. The boy slips in after him, curled up small against Slade to find the initial warmth under the covers. His head finds a place just under Slade’s, fingers splayed across the man’s chest.

Slow seconds pass, and then an arm curls against him, pulls the boy closer.

He falls asleep against Slade’s chest, soft soap and a musky scent of Slade filling his lungs with every breath, Slade’s soft breath the thunder in his ears, the boy curled around Slade as if he is the only thing in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> anyways this isn't really rapey, but, uh, it's not like poor robin has a choice. so it kind of is. ymmv.  
> comment for more smexy sladin, ignore for robin to have boring consensual vanilla sex with starfire for all time


End file.
